Back From The Dead Because Of You
by sarahw1984
Summary: Sherlock returns after The Fall because of his love for John. Can John forgive Sherlock for the grief he put him through and return his feelings? Major spoilers for all of Series 2. Rated M for language and very smutty smut. Pairing: Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction so reviews will be appreciated! Rated M for smut and I do not apologise for this! If you don't like Sherlock/John smut then please don't read! Some major spoilers for the three Series 2 episodes so if you don't want to know anything about any of them yet, also don't read! Also my own rather vague theory on how Sherlock pulled everything off in Series 2 Episode 3.**_

_**Here goes nothing…**_

**Back From The Dead Because Of You**

**Chapter One**

The world's only consulting detective had a problem. A problem in the shape of a short, sandy blonde ex-army doctor called John Watson.

Sherlock Holmes had never had friends until John Watson had come into his life. He had never had the time, inclination or need for them and he knew that people didn't often want to spend more time with him than necessary. But then along came John, a man who Sherlock hand inexplicably bonded with, a man who had killed for the detective after knowing him mere days, a man who had offered to die for him after only weeks, a man who had refused to lose faith in him even as Sherlock told him he was a fraud.

A man who, Sherlock feared, he cared for as much more than a friend.

It was six months since The Fall. Sherlock had been dead for three-and-a-half months and had been back from the dead for two-and-a-half. When he had "died" he had done so to, in the short-term, protect John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade from imminent death. He had stayed dead, in the long-term, to protect John, the one he cared for the most. John would always be in danger with Sherlock around, he would always be a target, and Sherlock would never forgive himself if anything happened to that astonishing man. So Sherlock had hatched a plan to get John away from St. Bart's by having Molly call him to say Mrs Hudson had been shot. Molly had then set up one of the corpses from the morgue to stand on another part of the hospital's roof, dressed up as Sherlock. This was who John saw fall. Molly had also paid off a cyclist to knock John over at the crucial moment, giving him a concussion. Sherlock had doused his head in Moriarty's blood and raced to the scene and replaced the body. John – concussed and being manhandled by paramedics and nurses (students, again paid off by Molly) – merely saw what looked like Sherlock's corpse. Molly had then helped Sherlock switch places with the fake Sherlock corpse and certified him as dead, before hiding the real Sherlock at her house.

Sherlock had done all of this because he knew that Moriarty was not really dead. Moriarty's "suicide" had been a very clever illusion involving a stage gun and some blood-filled squibs. Sherlock had only been able to get away with his part of the illusion because Moriarty had knocked himself out when he hit the floor – something the consulting criminal had, no doubt, planned in order to make his death appear more authentic. But Moriarty was very much alive and would have been sure to target John if he had found out that Sherlock was also still breathing.

So it had been to protect John that Sherlock had died and stayed dead for three-and-a-half months. But there was one thing Sherlock hadn't counted on in his carefully thought out plan: that even if John could learn to live his life without Sherlock, Sherlock could not live _his _life without John.

Sherlock had always assumed that his feelings for John were platonic. Intense, yes, but platonic. But living without John around him every day had forced Sherlock into the realisation that he didn't simply love John, he was _in love _with John. The detective had never been in love before, but he knew enough to know that when you cared about someone so strongly you were willing to fake your own death to keep them safe, combined that with vivid dreams about that person in an alarming variety of sexual situations, you had made the leap from love to in love. He began to realise that he had probably been in love with John from the moment the doctor had killed the serial killing cabbie for him and began to understand why John's constant insistence that they weren't a couple had always bothered him. He started to realise why he had systematically sabotaged every single one of John's relationships and why he had fished to find out why John would be upset over people turning on Sherlock. He realised exactly why he had felt like he could take on the world when holding hands with John, running through London handcuffed together, and why he had had to force himself not to approach John at the graveside and tell him there and then that it was fine, he was alive and John did not need to hurt anymore.

He was in love. Pure and simple.

Of course, this made it harder and harder to stay "dead". He couldn't stand that he was hurting John. He couldn't stand that they were apart. He especially couldn't stand that John might move on and meet someone else, never knowing how Sherlock felt.

And so the detective had come back from the dead. He had gathered enough evidence to clear his name with Scotland Yard and the press and he convinced himself that he could much better protect John by being by his side. So, one day, two-and-a-half months ago, Sherlock showed up at 221B Baker Street thinking things could just go back to the way they were. And for a moment he thought they could. John had been delighted to see him. He'd smiled and laughed and cried and hugged the detective.

And then he'd punched him in the face. Twice.

On reflection, Sherlock knew that he deserved it. He had put John through the loss of his best friend and no amount of telling him how it had been for the best at the time could make up for over three months of hell. John had been furious with him for weeks and things were only starting to get back to normal now. But getting back to normal was a problem in itself, because now Sherlock was burdened with the knowledge that he was in love with his best friend and wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off and take him there and then on the Chinese rug.

The thing was, Sherlock had never really thought about sex or his own sexuality. If anything, he had always considered himself as somewhat asexual. He saw sex as a distraction, something lesser beings squandered time on, something that could turn a logical, scientific mind into a disorganised mush if one was not careful. He wasn't even sure if he was gay or bisexual since there had only ever been John. To his knowledge, he had never even been sexually attracted to anyone. Not even The Woman. In her case he was much more interested in her mind than her body.

But with John, it was the full package. Sherlock wanted him mind, body and soul.

The detective admired John's intelligence, his courage, his loyalty. He appreciated the fact that John had remained his friend when anyone else would have left him alone. He liked – not that he would ever admit it – that John could teach him things that he didn't already know. He loved that John had never lost faith in him, that even in the face of all of Moriarty's "evidence" the doctor had still believed in him. And now he found John to be the sexiest creature ever to walk the Earth. All it took was for John to offer him a cup of tea, or snappishly tell him that he was behaving like an absolute tool and Sherlock felt himself growing hard. And if John leaned over him to examine whatever evidence he was working on, it was all Sherlock could do not to come in his perfectly tailored trousers.

And here was the root of Sherlock's problem: he didn't have the foggiest idea of what to do about it.

Years of avoiding sex had now come to bite the detective. He knew the mechanics, of course. He knew what went where and how, but he had no idea how to tell if a) John felt the same – infuriating in itself because Sherlock prided himself on always knowing what John was thinking – and, b) how to tell John how he felt. And now he was frustrated and angry. One move in the wrong direction and he could scare John out of his life forever and he definitely did _not _want that when he had only just got him back. But if he didn't do anything about it, how would he ever know? It seemed an impossible situation. Especially when Sherlock was just not the type of person to talk about feelings. As John was so fond of pointing out, Sherlock just didn't relate to people, so he couldn't just sit down and talk to John about what was going on in his head. And even though he had now found out he could very much relate to John, he still didn't think he could address this verbally with the older man.

Sherlock realised that he had been staring at the same part of the severed hand he was examining for the past thirty minutes. It was no good. He had been nothing but distracted for the last ten weeks and he couldn't cope. He got up, flung the hand into the fridge and looked around for John before remembering that the doctor had gone out to work.

An image of John spreading those rough, masculine, healing hands across his chest rose unbidden in Sherlock's mind and he felt his cock twitch. Oh well, he thought, I am alone…

Sherlock went through to his bedroom and began unbuttoning his shirt. Asexual as he had always considered himself, Sherlock was no stranger to masturbation. However, in the past it had always been a nuisance, something he needed to do to relieve tension once in a while. Perfunctory, efficient and done without thinking of anything remotely sexual. There was no pleasure in it – just release from a distracting tension. This afternoon, he decided as he stripped off his clothes, removed the bottle of lube from his bedside table (it usually speeded things up but it wasn't going to be used that way now) and lay down naked on the bed, was going to be very different.

His cock was already hard, and Sherlock gave it an experimental stroke with his long, elegant fingers while picturing John's handsome face and let out a low growl. It felt good, but he wanted it to last and that wasn't going to happen if he went straight for his erection. Instead he brought his hands up and tentatively caressed a nipple, stroking it to hardness before pinching it between his finger and thumb.

_John rubbing him with those solid, working hands. Sucking a nipple into his mouth, rolling it under his tongue._

Sherlock moaned and pinched harder.

_John kissing Sherlock's throat. Biting down, marking him as his. Pinching his nipple hard, tugging it, moving his lips down and biting it gently. Marking Sherlock. Owning him._

"Don't stop, John…" Sherlock groaned, feeling his cock twitching, aching with arousal as in his mind, John continued to worship the detective's body.

_John's tongue working its way down Sherlock's body, running gently round his belly button._

Sherlock's finger's copied imaginary John's tongue, tracing circles round his own belly button. It tickled but, God, it was making him even harder.

_John's hot, wet mouth making its way down to the detective's rock hard cock. Running the tip of his tongue up the length of it before engulfing it, allowing Sherlock to thrust into him._

Sherlock pumped his erection into his fist. "Oh, God, John! That feels so good…" Sherlock felt any semblance of logic leaving his brain. Control was gone now.

_John continuing to suck and lick Sherlock's erection, always looking up at the detective, making eye contact with those gorgeous brown eyes. One hand fondling Sherlock's balls, the other pumping his own impressive erection bringing it up to its full hardness. "I want to fuck you, Sherlock… Will you let me?"_

"Oh, yes! Please John! Fuck me!" Sherlock moaned loudly as he let go of his cock briefly in order to squeeze lube onto his fingers. Quickly he resumed his ministrations on his penis before sliding a finger from his other hand into his tight arse.

_John preparing Sherlock, sliding a slick finger in and out while sucking gently on the detective's balls. Adding another finger and scissoring. "You're so tight, Sherlock… You feel amazing… I can't wait to put my cock in you… So hot and tight…"_

Sherlock had two fingers scissoring in his arse now, his other hand moving fast on his cock. He was close. "Fuck me, John!" He thrust in a third finger, screaming as the sharp pain quickly turned to pleasure.

_John shoving his monster cock into Sherlock's tight, virgin arse and fucking him so hard he could see stars. John's fingers tight on Sherlock's hip, leaving light bruises on the pale skin, as his other hand works Sherlock's cock which is twitching uncontrollably. "I'm close, Sherlock. I'm going to come. Come for me, Sherlock."_

Sherlock thrashed on the bed and let out a loud moan that quickly became a scream as his fingers brushed his prostate and he saw stars. Rope after rope of hot come shot from his cock and landed on his chest and stomach. It felt like the orgasm would never end but eventually he came down, fingers slipping from his arse and penis slipping from his fist.

The detective had never experienced an orgasm like it. It was so much more intense than his usual perfunctory wank that it left him breathless, speechless and unable to move. He lay there panting, trying to catch his breath, very aware of the sticky come slowly drying on his hand and torso. He really should go wash up but he doubted very much if his legs would work.

Instead, he fell into the first decent sleep he'd had since "dying", a sleep in which he dreamed a short, handsome ex-army doctor lay curled round him in a post-coital glow.

_**A/N: Hope you like it. Please review – all constructive feedback is appreciated. I might have the next chapter, which will be from John's POV, up later today.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Now an attempt at a second chapter. I doubt I'll always update this quickly or regularly, for which I apologise, but I will try.**_

_**Again, there are major spoilers for Series 2 – particularly Episode 3 – and Sherlock/John smuttiness although not as much in this chapter as the last one. If you don't like this, it's probably best that you don't read, although constructive reviews are appreciated! :)**_

_**Speaking of which, thank you muchly to power0girl for the lovely review of Chapter One!**_

**Back From The Dead Because Of You**

**Chapter Two**

John Watson knew what hell was. Hell was seeing your best friend, the love of your sodding life, sprawled out, broken and bleeding on a pavement. Hell was watching them fall to that pavement. Hell was hearing the sickening crunch as they landed.

John Watson also knew what heaven was. Heaven was seeing your best friend, the love of your sodding life, walk back through your front door, alive and well, explaining that they did it all to protect you, that they had pretended to be dead in order to keep you alive.

So what was purgatory? Purgatory must be the weeks following that – the time spent happy that they're alive, but angry at them for putting you through it in the first place.

John was, then, only just emerging from purgatory. After John had finished with the initial euphoria that accompanied Sherlock's return from the grave, he had punched him. Twice. John had wanted Sherlock to experience even just a tiny fraction of the pain that he had while the detective had been "dead". But John had reasoned that stabbing the taller man repeatedly with a kitchen knife would probably defeat the object so punching him hard in that stupid, handsome face of his would have to do.

John had been devastated when Sherlock had "died" for so many reasons. He owed the detective for saving him from his depression and post-traumatic stress, as well as for saving his actual life on more than one occasion. Sherlock was his best friend and greatest confidante. He amazed and annoyed him in equal measure, but most of all he made him smile. John knew that without Sherlock, the world would be that bit more lonely and grey. But most of all, Sherlock's "death" devastated John because of the realisations he had begun to make in the days leading up to it.

When John had been worried about the press turning on Sherlock, the detective had asked him why. At the time, John hadn't answered, not knowing the right words, but now he knew that the answer he had wanted to give, that he should have given, was "I'm worried because I love you." When John had punched the Chief Superintendent in the face, it hadn't been simply because he insulted his friend, it had been because he had insulted the man John loved and because John had decided that if Sherlock was going to prison, he was going too. When Sherlock had told John to take his hand as they ran through London, John had wilfully accepted delighting at the feel of Sherlock's hand in his own and, not to put too fine a point on it, getting very inappropriately turned on at the handcuff situation. And when Sherlock spoke to him on the phone in the moments before his "suicide", John had wanted more than anything to tell him how he felt, but the detective had jumped before he could.

In therapy, John had been asked to let out what he hadn't had the chance to say to Sherlock. But that was private. It was between him and Sherlock and saying it to a virtual stranger was not going to help him in the slightest. John had decided that he would never say those words out loud until he could say them to Sherlock himself. He wasn't sure if he believed in an afterlife, but he could hope for one, couldn't he?

So when Sherlock walked through that door, John went from disbelief to elation to anger in a very short space of time. He was angry that Sherlock could've put him through that torment, even if it was for his own good. He was angry that Sherlock had been logical and methodical, apparently without a sense of feeling. He was angry that he loved a man who cared so little for his emotional wellbeing that he allowed him to believe him dead. The anger lingered for days, weeks even, before slowly turning into apprehension. John knew that he couldn't keep his feelings inside forever and he wanted so badly to tell Sherlock how he felt. He knew that it could destroy them if Sherlock didn't feel the same – and God knows John had no idea how Sherlock felt at the best of times – but John knew now what it was like to lose someone without ever telling them how he felt and he'd be buggered if he went through that again now he had a second chance.

Of course, John was well aware of what would happen if Sherlock _did _feel the same but John was more than ready for their relationship to become a sexual one. For all his protestations that he wasn't gay, John knew that it wasn't strictly true. He preferred to think of himself as straight but flexible. He had had male lovers in the past, particularly during his time in the military. He had never sought a relationship with a man – which was why he didn't particularly consider himself bisexual – but he had sought and enjoyed many different sexual encounters with members of the same sex. He found men attractive, he had just never wanted more than a fling or a one night stand with one until he had realised his feelings for Sherlock. John had often wondered idly if Mycroft was right and Sherlock really was a virgin. Even if he was, John knew better than anyone that Sherlock was a fast learner and would probably be a master of seduction in no time flat.

So, yes, John knew what he was doing if Sherlock returned his feelings… But what if he didn't? John knew it would make things awkward for _him_, but he could quite easily imagine Sherlock carrying on as normal, telling John he was married to his work and that was that. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad. If that happened, maybe John could get over it in time and they could just continue their platonic relationship as if John had never said anything.

John returned home from work at the surgery late that evening. Wondering how to judge when the right time to talk to Sherlock would be. Perhaps when he had a case? Cases were slow coming in at the moment as word that Sherlock was alive and not a fraud was still spreading but they were bound to get one soon and then Sherlock would be keen and excited and happy and perhaps more receptive to John's advances. Yes, he'd wait for them to get a case.

He walked into the living room of 221B and was at first alarmed by the lack of Sherlock, who rarely left the flat when there wasn't a case to be found. But then he heard soft snores emitting from the detective's bedroom. Thank God he's sleeping, thought John. His friend rarely slept and it wasn't good for him. So John crept quietly to his own bedroom, careful not to make any noise to wake the sleeping detective.

ooo

The next morning, John awoke, still able to hear the sounds of his friend's snores. Even his snoring is elegant, John mused, smiling wryly. But really he was just glad that Sherlock had slept the whole night and decided to make him a cup of tea to wake him. Pulling on a t-shirt over his boxers, John went to the kitchen and made two cups of tea. Sherlock liked his strong with hardly any milk and no sugar, it was sure to wake him up and prepare him for the day ahead.

Leaving his own mug in the kitchen, John carried Sherlock's down the hall to his bedroom door and knocked gently. The snoring continued so John decided to nudge the door open, and go wake Sherlock, who he imagined to be lying on the bed, probably still fully dressed with some kind of case data in his hand.

As it turned out, it was all John could do not to drop the tea.

There lay Sherlock Holmes, spread-eagled and very naked, dried come splattering his lean stomach and chest. His dark curls were messed up atop his gorgeous head, presumably set askew during the throes of passion. The fingers of his left hand were still shiny with what John decided must be lube, considering the bottle on the bedside table, while his right hand was covered with what looked like more dried come. It didn't take a genius to work out _exactly _what Sherlock had been doing the night before, but nonetheless, the detective would probably be impressed by John's deduction skills.

John, meanwhile, couldn't help but stare. It was the sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life: Sherlock Holmes completely undone. John imagined the detective lying there, stroking his beautiful cock and fingering himself until he lost all control and came so hard that he couldn't even get up to wash himself. He wondered who's name he'd moaned… Had it been his?

It dawned on John that staring longingly at a naked, come-covered Sherlock was more than a little creepy and quickly retreated to the living room, desperately trying to think unsexy thoughts to calm his own raging hard-on which he did _not _fancy taking care of with Sherlock only in the next room. As quiet a man as John was in his day-to-day life he was not quiet during sex or masturbation and he did not want to risk Sherlock hearing him screaming his name as he reached orgasm. He popped Sherlock's tea down in the kitchen, fetched up his own and began to read the paper that Mrs Hudson had left for him, blushing a little while later as he heard Sherlock stirring down the hall.

ooo

Sherlock awoke in severe discomfort. He was naked. He was cold. He was covered in the dried remains of a spectacular orgasm. He needed a shower. Pulling on his favourite dressing gown, he rushed to the bathroom and allowed the warm spray of the shower to cascade over him. He knew John was around the flat somewhere – he never worked on Saturdays – and he wasn't sure how to face him. How could he be his usual, distant, cold self when he kept replaying his incredibly vivid masturbatory fantasy and feeling the pleasant soreness in his arse left by his fingers?

Maybe today should be the day to tell John how he felt? Tell him that he wanted him, needed him, loved him, that he couldn't live without him. Maybe today would be the day that he could take John urgently on the Chinese rug. Or maybe today would be the day that John finally ran away in fear.

As he finished washing and turned off the water, Sherlock, once again, chickened out of telling John anything. The risk of losing John was too great – he needed to be sure of how the doctor felt before he said anything. With this in mind, Sherlock dried himself, ran a towel over his wet curls, pulled on his dressing gown and walked out to the living room.

"Morning." John greeted him, without looking up from the paper.

_John shoving his monster cock into Sherlock's tight, virgin arse and fucking him so hard he could see stars._

Sherlock shook his head to clear it of the unbidden fantasy. "Um… Erm… Good morning." He hurried to the kitchen where he spied a mug of tea on the counter. He glanced back at John who had an empty mug resting on his thigh. "You made me tea?"

John looked up and Sherlock saw something cross his face... Confusion? Embarrassment? "Er… Yes, Sherlock. I heard you getting in the shower so I made it for you."

Sherlock picked up the mug and took a sip. It was almost cold. That can't be right, thought the detective. I was only in the bathroom for around seven minutes. If John made the tea when he heard me go in then it wouldn't have time to go cold. He must have made it earlier. About twenty-five, thirty minutes ago I'd say since John always pours the water on as soon as it's come to the boil. So why would he lie and say he made it when he heard me in the shower? Unless…

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot with shame, not a familiar feeling for a man who didn't care what people thought of him. Unless he made it to wake me with. That's just the sort of thing he'd do if he hadn't seen me about. He would've knocked on the door and worried when he didn't hear me stir so he'd have just let himself in. Why wouldn't he? When I do sleep I fall asleep clothed. He knows that. So he'd have let himself in and he'd have seen me. Seen me like _that_. Naked. Covered in come and lube. Probably still with his name on my damn lips. That's why he lied. He probably meant to throw the tea away but forgot. So he lied to cover up _when _he'd made it, forgetting I'd notice the temperature.

Sherlock glanced back at John who was staring fixedly at his paper, clearly not reading it, just staring at it to avoid looking at Sherlock. His colour was heightened but Sherlock couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or excitement and the newspaper was covering the doctor's groin so Sherlock could not tell if he was aroused. So why would John not want Sherlock to know he'd seen him? Sherlock could only think of three reasons. 1) He was being a good friend and did not want to embarrass the detective, 2) he was repelled by what he had seen and did not want to have to discuss it, or 3) he had liked what he had seen and did not want Sherlock to know in case he rejected the doctor.

But Sherlock didn't know which one it was and Sherlock didn't like not knowing. He was Sherlock Holmes. He _always _knew. But here was this man – this astonishing man – and he had the great detective completely befuddled. _This _was why Sherlock avoided relationships, stayed away from sex. It confused things, it messed up the brain.

At that moment, John got up to head back to his room, presumably to get dressed, and Sherlock caught side of a firm backside clad in charcoal grey boxer briefs.

Yes, sex messed up the brain. But Sherlock would be damned if he'd be deleting this.

_**A/N: So, I do plan to have Sherlock and John get together eventually, but I'd like to play with the sexual tension a bit more while they go on a case before I let it happen. So sorry if I'm teasing anyone!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Well, since people are enjoying this I'll carry right on. Off work today which is why there is an extra update but, to be honest, I'll normally only be able to update once a week – maybe a bit less on busy weeks.**_

_**Thanks to everyone who has added this story to their alerts and favourites, and thank you in particular to kissedangelzxxx, XxRazorgirlxX, Fan, PhrasesForTheYoung, Reynardetta, dreykar and NebulousBlender for taking the time to review. And yes, NebulousBlender, there will be much more sexual tension. One more chapter of it after this one… AT LEAST!**_

_**This chapter has covered more ground than I expected it to but it just seemed right to carry it on to what felt like a logical conclusion. Don't worry though, there's still more to come!**_

_**As ever, rated M for Sherlock/John smut, sexual tension (yay!) and language. Don't like, don't read – although this chapter is predominantly case-based with only a little bit of smuttiness!**_

**Back From The Dead Because Of You**

**Chapter Three**

John was going mad. Or, at least, that's how it felt. It had been a week since he had seen Sherlock spread-eagled on the bed in a post-wank delirium and he hadn't been able to get the image from his head.

He spent as somewhat disproportionate amount of time wondering what had been running though Sherlock's mind as he got himself off (The Woman perhaps? Or maybe a short yet well-built ex-army doctor?), and further time spend imagining it was _his _come that had splattered the detective's body. He had wanked himself off to this last thought in his bedroom (bathroom, surgery _and_ gym showers) more times than he cared to remember in the last seven days. It was distracting and it was awkward, but not as awkward as the realisation that Sherlock _knew _John had seen him.

You see, John had meant to throw the tea down the sink but, in his flustered state he had simply set it down on the counter top and picked up his own. When Sherlock had enquired about it, John had lied without thinking, not wanting the detective to work out that he'd seen him, but also quite distracted that the man was clearly naked under that slim-fitting robe. As soon as John saw Sherlock take a sip and pull a face he realised his error – that the tea would be too cold to have possibly been made within the last ten minutes. He had seen the colour rush to Sherlock's face from over the top of his paper and he knew that Sherlock knew that he had seen him.

Yes, it was awkward. And without a case to distract them from their clear embarrassment, it seemed to be never-ending. They were being ridiculously formal around each other when they had to speak, but taking every possible opportunity not to since neither could gauge the other's reaction.

"Oh, God, please give him a case soon," the detective groaned as he climbed out of the shower late on Saturday morning.

It would seem John's luck was in, but it was Lestrade, not God, who stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street showing case files to Sherlock when the doctor walked in not five minutes later, dressed but flushed from the warm shower. Sherlock looked up as he entered and John could swear he saw a momentary blush on the sharp cheekbones of his friend as they made eye contact. But then it was gone and Sherlock seemed back to his usual self.

"Scotland Yard have _finally _decided to consult with me over this serial killer, John." Sherlock snarled derisively.

"Don't say it like that, Sherlock," interjected Lestrade. "I wanted to consult with you from the word 'go' but others on the Force weren't so keen. Some of them are still a bit… nervous… of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued reading the case file while John went to make a pot of tea for the three of them, thinking over what he knew from the news about the serial killer who currently had London terrorised. He (presuming it was a "he") had killed five women so far: Lorraine Smythe, Helena Vaughn, Jeanette Thompson, Frankie Roberts and Tessa Brownlow. There was no known firm link between the women other than that they were all aged between fifty-seven and sixty-two, all either widowed or divorced and all had lived in London or the Greater London area their whole lives. Police were baffled as there was nothing to connect the women beyond that. They hadn't belonged to any dating agencies, they didn't have any mutual friends, they didn't even share a hairdresser. The police were well and truly stumped and John had figured it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock got the case.

"So, what don't I already know from the news?" John asked, carrying the tea tray through and pouring three cups.

"Thinking," murmured Sherlock impatiently.

"I wasn't asking you," John muttered as he put a tea cup down next to the detective and turned his gaze to Lestrade.

"Well, the things we've kept from the press are that all of the women were stabbed with a generic kitchen knife _except _for Lorraine Smythe," Lestrade informed him.

"The first victim?" John remembered her face from the news. She was an attractive lady, clearly took care of herself.

"Yeah. She was strangled by someone wearing gloves. We think it means he wasn't planning on killing her, but then he got a taste for it so next time he came prepared with the knife."

Behind them, Sherlock muttered something that sounded like, "So the police get it right for a change…"

Lestrade continued, "We've also not told the press that all of the women were found with a copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_."

"_Persuasion_?" John had read it while he was in hospital after he was shot. "A calling card from the killer?"

"We thought that at first. But all of the copies are different editions and the third victim, Jeanette Thompson, had checked hers out from her local library. So it would seem the women brought them with them. We're sure it's a clue of some kind but without any further context we don't have anything to go on." Lestrade looked dejected and John knew what was running through his mind. He was worried that they were going to have to wait for more bodies to stack up to get more clues.

"Right," Sherlock stood up abruptly, "Lestrade, I will have this case closed as soon as possible and preferably before anyone else dies." Lestrade took that as his cue to leave, swigged back his tea, bid goodbye to John and headed out of the door.

John glanced at Sherlock, relieved and yet disappointed to see that any trace of the former awkwardness had vanished. This was the Sherlock of old. "So, what have you spotted that they haven't?"

"Nothing yet."

John looked up sharply in shock. "Nothing? But you just told Lestrade you'd have this case sorted ASAP."

"And I will do. Once I know what Jane Austen's _Persuasion _is about."

"You've never read _Persuasion_?"

"I've never read Jane Austen, John. I never thought I'd have a need to understand… romance novels." The derision dripping from the word "romance" was not lost on John.

"They're not just romances. They're… Oh, to hell with it. You don't care. _Persuasion_'s about second chances. It's about a woman who is engaged to be married, but allows her friends to talk her into calling it off because they think her fiancé's not good enough for her. She dumps him and he joins the navy and she regrets it as soon as he leaves. Years later he returns a wealthy hero and all the women are throwing themselves at him except for his ex-financé, who still loves him but is ashamed. After many misunderstandings he eventually tells her that he never stopped loving her and they marry. So it's about love and regret and second chances."

Sherlock nodded once and then went back to his "thinking" pose, sitting in his chair, hands together as if in prayer. John continued rambling his own thoughts out loud. "It sounds to me like blind dates. I mean, if you go on a blind date you ask the other person do carry or wear something you'll recognise them by. It sounds to me like they've all been asked to bring a copy of _Persuasion_ to help someone recognise them."

"Or to make them think they're meeting someone who _won't _recognise them!" Sherlock chimed in, jumping up. "The women all thought they were meeting a blind date, but the blind date already knew _them_. Hence _Persuasion_ – a book about second chances. Someone they already knew who wanted a second chance with them. But how…?" Sherlock trailed off and began booting up John's laptop.

"Feel free to use my computer, Sherlock." John's voice was dripping with sarcasm but the world's only consulting detective either didn't hear him or was ignoring him.

Really, though, John was glad. This was normal Sherlock – or as normal as Sherlock got. He was thinking about a case and treating John like an idiot again, rather than looking embarrassed every time he saw him. As for John, he was thinking about the case. He hadn't thought about Sherlock, laid out on the bed, naked and debauched for at least half an hour. That had to be a good thing… Right?

Just then, John remembered his promise to himself that he would tell Sherlock his feelings for him the next time they had a case. He looked at the detective who was tapping away furiously at the laptop, his dark curls falling over his face. I'll tell him when he solves it, John told himself. He'll be elated then. It'll be the best time.

And with that decision made, John plonked himself in a chair and poured another cup of tea.

ooo

Sherlock had never been so happy to see Lestrade in his life. He had been desperate for something to take his mind off John and now he had it. A case. An actual case!

He had seen the reports of the murders on the news, of course, and had already formulated some ideas, but then that had all changed when he had found out about the book the women were all carrying. Why a book? And why this particular book? His aversion to anything romantic bit him once again and he was forced to ask John for knowledge he was not already in possession of – something he absolutely hated doing, partially due to pride and partially because he didn't know why John would want him or to be around him if he didn't think Sherlock was brilliant all of the time.

And as John had begun to wax lyrical about a story of two people meant to be together, about getting a second chance with the one you love, Sherlock had felt something stir in his chest and he realised he was thinking about his own second chance to be with John and how he was currently blowing it by not saying anything. I'll tell him when I've solved the case, Sherlock decided. He'll be thinking how amazing I am and that's sure to go in my favour.

With that decided, Sherlock got back to the case at hand while, on the periphery of his hearing, John wittered on about blind dates. But something he was saying was making sense and combine that with the themes of the book and… Sherlock was on to something. The victims all thought they were going to meet a stranger and so they brought copies of the book in order to be recognised. But the book was symbolic, it was about a second chance at love. If the killer had asked them to bring it then he must already know the victims. So how? He just had to find the link.

He got to work on John's laptop. The book was about a second chance at love so the killer was likely a former boyfriend of all five women. All of the women had Facebook pages so, using the details in the case file Sherlock logged in as each of them in turn. No mutual friends at all – although that meant nothing. Many people deleted exes from their Facebook friends. Just as he was about to log out of Tessa Brownlow's account he noticed an advert – one of those personalised ones that appears on your Facebook home page. It was for a Jane Austen fansite and discussion forum. He clicked on the link and a new tab opened with a fairly amateurish-looking site that housed information on the books and their various film and television adaptations, a biography of the author herself and a discussion forum. He clicked on the discussion forum and found he was logged in as a guest. He quickly scoured the usernames of people who'd posted. There! Fluffy1254 – that was Tessa Brownlow. She had a cat called Fluffy and her birthday was 1 February 1954. He quickly logged back into Facebook as the other four victims. The advert appeared on all of their pages. He went back through the members list for the Jane Austen forum.

JeanetteT – easy. Jeanette Thompson.

MrsDarcy12779 – Lorraine Smythe. Not as easy but Lorraine Smythe's daughter's birthday was 12 July 1979.

HelenaDarcy19 – Helena Vaughn lived at 19 Kensington Gardens. What was the obsession with Darcy though, Sherlock mused?

Franbert – easy. Frankie Roberts. Bored now.

So all of the women were registered on the site. It didn't take Sherlock long to hack into their accounts. Nearly all of their passwords were a variation on "Mr Darcy". The forum had a private messaging service for registered members. He accessed Lorraine Smythe's inbox. There were lots of messages back and forth between her and a FredWentworth1948. The last one asked her to meet him in a coffee shop near her house. She should bring a copy of _Persuasion _so he would recognise her. The date of the meeting was the date of her murder. All of the women had messages from the same account. All were asked to meet FredWentworth1948 at a café near each of their homes. All were asked to bring a copy of _Persuasion_ for recognition. All were asked to meet him on the day they were murdered.

"John!" Sherlock called, "We have him!"

John jumped up to join him, leaning over the detective's shoulder to see the computer screen. Sherlock could feel John's breath on his cheek and he briefly wondered what John would do if he turned his head slightly and kissed him, but he banished the thought as quickly as it arose.

"He's lured them to him using this Jane Austen forum. He's set up ads on Facebook specifically targeting the accounts of old flames. Once on the site he seemingly gets to know them and impresses them by appearing to know so much about them intuitively. See the messages? They're flattered, think they've found a soul mate or some such nonsense, but it's all a trick because he _already knows them_. He arranges to meet them and I'll bet anything that when he shows up he's expecting a joyous reunion but they reject him. The _always_ reject him, John. And so he has to kill them."

Sherlock glanced up at John who had a look of bewilderment combined with dawning realisation as he caught up with Sherlock's train of thought. Turning away, Sherlock began typing characters and words into the computer until eventually he cried, "We're in!"

"In where?"

"In FredWentwork1948's account. We can –"

"We can see if he's contacted anyone else since Tessa Brownlow." John interrupted.

Sherlock didn't know whether to be impressed or perturbed but he ignored it and opened the private messaging page. "Yes, he's contacted one more since Tessa Brownlow and he's meeting her… He's meeting her in ten minutes, John. Just down the road from here. LLMarie221."

"Say that again, Sherlock." Something in John's voice made Sherlock turn round. John had frozen to the spot and had gone completely pale.

"LLMarie221."

"That's the username Mrs Hudson uses to log in to my blog."

Sherlock and John had grabbed their coats (John also grabbed his gun) and raced out into the street faster than anyone would have thought possible.

ooo

John had felt himself die a little when he saw Mrs Hudson's username appear. If this sick bastard did anything to hurt her, John would kill him stone dead. It was now late afternoon and, as it was winter, it was starting to go dark already. John and Sherlock raced through the streets to the Café Nero mentioned in the messages as the street lights began to flicker on. Sherlock shouted down the phone to Lestrade as they went.

They were going to save Mrs Hudson, catch the killer and then John was going to tell Sherlock that he loved him. That was how this day was going to end. Exactly like that, thought John.

They reached the coffee shop a good ten minutes after the proposed meeting time but there was no Mrs Hudson to be seen. The barista could only tell them that she had seen the lady with the book leave with an older gentleman about five minutes ago. She hadn't seemed too happy to see him, apparently, but he'd offered to walk her home through the park.

John and Sherlock were off like a shot again, racing into the nearby park that offered an alternative route to Baker Street.

"Let's split up," John heard Sherlock shout. "We'll cover more ground that way."

John didn't need telling twice and raced off into the dimly lit park, one hand constantly on the gun in his coat pocket. He heard a noise like a muffled scream, as if someone had tried to scream while someone else put a hand over their mouth. "Mrs Hudson!" John breathed, as he ran in the direction of the noise.

And there, suddenly ahead of him was Mrs Hudson, being gripped by a tall, strong looking man in his early sixties, as his other hand clutched a knife. John fired a bullet into the man, hitting him high in the back. He dropped Mrs Hudson who let out a whimper as she hit the floor. John crouched by her, checking she was OK, whispering comforting things to her, hugging the woman who he looked to as a surrogate mother.

And then suddenly a yell, Sherlock's voice – where had he come from? "John! Behind you!"

John tried to turn but it was too late. He felt a sharp pain as the knife sunk into his back and he cried out and fell to the floor. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock kicking FredWentworth1948 in the head repeatedly until he blacked out. Or died. Whatever.

And then he was aware of Sherlock's arms around him and Sherlock muttering over and over, "You can't die. I won't let you die. You can't die. You're not allowed, John. Stop it." And then Mrs Hudson was calling an ambulance and he heard Lestrade somewhere in the distance and a vague, dreamlike thought that he'd never got to tell Sherlock that he loved him. And then he slipped into the blackness, even as Sherlock told him not to.

_**A.N: Hope you like! Sorry for the incredibly downbeat ending but there are more chapters so I'm sure you know where I'm going with this. All reviews appreciated!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Thank you to all my lovely reviewers (kissedangelzxxx, CalmintheChaos, tor62442, Christine, PhrasesForTheYoung How Convenient, tessa626, GothicGirlxxx, Zarra Rous, Angela, Goth Angel UK and Kiyoshi). I'm sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger but hopefully this chapter should resolve a lot.**_

_**Once again warnings for a Sherlock/John pairing, smuttiness, sexual tension and language. No likey, no, um read-y?**_

**Back From The Dead Because Of You**

**Chapter Four**

John felt the world slowly swimming back into focus. There were bright lights, bleeping noises, the sound of people talking and a face. A face he knew well slowly coming together in front of him.

"Sherlock?" His voice came out a croak. How long had he been out for?

"It's Lestrade, John. You were stabbed earlier tonight. You've been out about seven hours."

The room had come dramatically into focus now. He was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a variety of monitors. And there was Greg Lestrade, sitting by his bed, a look of relief on his tanned face.

"Lestrade? Where's Sherlock?"

"He's… Well… He's outside. Handcuffed to my car." John smiled despite everything. There was clearly a story here.

"Handcuffed?"

"Well, he was worried about you in his way, and he was making something of a nuisance of himself. He was demanding to see the credentials of every doctor or nurse who came near you but then was giving them hell if they didn't give you _enough _attention. In the end I thought it best to remove him from the hospital until you were awake but he wouldn't go back to Baker Street and I couldn't trust him not to come back in so I handcuffed him to the car."

"He'll pick the lock."

"Not these ones he won't. I got them from Mycroft who got them from Irene Adler. They're her very special, can't-be-picked handcuffs and the key is currently in my pocket." Lestrade smiled, clearly chuffed to have got one over on Sherlock Holmes at long last. John, meanwhile was very glad he was tucked under several layers of sheets and blankets. The thought of Sherlock held firm by a pair of sex handcuffs was causing him a severe problem inside his hospital issue pyjamas.

"Anyway, John, don't you want to know how _you _are?" Lestrade was smirking now and John just knew he was inferring all kinds from the fact that John had asked about Sherlock before anything else.

"Well, I'm guessing I'm alive?"

Lestrade laughed. "Yes. By no small miracle the knife hit scar tissue in your shoulder. You lost a lot of blood and apparently you'll be very sore but there's no permanent damage and you'll live. Although the way Sherlock was carrying on you'd think you were at death's door. You're in a better state than the killer. A Mr Peter Barclay. He's currently still out cold. He'll be able to stand trial but Sherlock gave his face such a good kicking that his own mother wouldn't recognise him." John wasn't sure whether it was inappropriate to laugh, but he felt like it anyway. "I'll go get him, should I?" Lestrade asked.

"Please."

Lestrade left the room to get the presumably irate detective while John lay back against the pillows and tried to remember everything. He remembered shooting Mrs Hudson's attacker (oh, Christ, Mrs Hudson! How was she? He'd have to ask Sherlock) and then being stabbed. After that it was all a bit hazy. He remembered Sherlock holding him and commanding him not to die, but after that it was a complete blank. A couple of nurses came and went but John was pretty much left to himself for a good ten minutes.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the door flying open and Sherlock swooping in, all angular features and coat tails. He looked like a man who had lived a thousand years of torment since John had last laid eyes on him. His normally handsome features were drawn and his already pale skin was the colour of plaster of Paris. John noticed harsh red bands on his wrists where he had presumably been straining against Lestrade's handcuffs once he realised he couldn't pick the lock. He looked so thoroughly miserable – like John had never seen him before – that all John wanted to do was hold him and make it all better. But as he attempted to sit up to stretch his arms out to his friend, he felt a sharp pain in his wounded shoulder and was forced to flop back down with a whimper.

"John? Are you alright John? What's the matter?" Sherlock's voice was filled with urgency and panic.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." John croaked. "I just tried to move and, it would seem, that's something I can't do at the moment." He smiled sardonically at his friend.

"I wasn't here when you woke up."

"No."

"I wanted to be. But Lestrade insisted on locking me in his car using industrial-grade handcuffs."

"I hope he left the window open a crack."

Sherlock blinked slowly after this last comment before he seemed to realise John was making a joke. He smiled and sat down in the chair that had, earlier, been occupied by Lestrade.

"How's Mrs Hudson?" John asked, feeling guilty that this hadn't been the first thing he'd asked when he came round.

"She's shook up but she's not injured. He was an ex-boyfriend. She'd dated him for a bit after her husband's execution but split up with him because he was a bit odd. He duped her the same way he did the other women. She's going to stay with her nephew in the Lakes for a little while to get some rest. We have to fend for ourselves for a bit."

John laughed. It hurt but he didn't care. "That'll be fun. I can hardly move and you're generally useless."

Sherlock didn't look angry. Instead he gave a small smile. "I could hire a cleaner."

"I think we'll cope, Sherlock. I'm not sure a cleaner-for-hire could deal with the body parts scattered around are flat, do you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long while after that. John watched him and realised that there was something bothering the detective. John knew it was useless in situations like this to get the detective to open up. He'd do it himself when he was good and ready. So John just lay there and thought. Thought about how once he was home in Baker Street he was going to tell Sherlock everything about how he felt, tell him that he loved him and hope for the best. He glanced over at the handsome detective, who seemed to be on the verge of saying something but it was as if he couldn't find the right words. Eventually, he spoke.

"John… I… I'm sorry." John opened his mouth to ask what Sherlock could possibly have to be sorry for but the detective ignored him and continued. "When I 'died', I did it to protect you. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. But mostly you. In fact, you were really the only one I thought about. So I 'died' because of you. But I came _back_ from the dead because of you too."

The detective paused, seemingly searching for words again. John waited with baited breath. He wasn't sure – he could never predict Sherlock – but it sounded if the world's only consulting detective was about to beat him to the punch and declare his own feelings.

"I… I couldn't function without you John. I was alone. Lonely. Like it was before I met you but worse because then I knew what it was to have a… A… A friend." John's heart sank but he kept listening. "It didn't matter how many people I surrounded myself with, how many times I spoke with Molly. It wasn't _you_. It took me weeks to deduce what was going on, but in the end I could only come to one conclusion. That I… That I felt more for you than just friendship. And once I realised that, I knew I couldn't stay 'dead'. I had to come back to Baker Street. To you."

John felt his heart leap in his chest. He knew what it was taking for Sherlock to say all of this. He knew that Sherlock couldn't say the L-word. But John had never expected him to. It probably wasn't in his vocabulary. John was happy just knowing that the detective cared enough to say these things. The doctor could tell, though, that Sherlock wasn't finished so he waited.

"When I came back I told myself that it would all be fine because you were safe, that I could keep you safe. But then tonight… Tonight _this _happened and it was my fault. If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been there and you wouldn't have got hurt. Nearly killed." Sherlock had been saying most of this to his knees, but now he looked up and John could see tears glistening in his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you. And I don't want to be alone again. And without you, I'm alone."

John knew it was his turn now. "Sherlock, it wasn't your fault. I go where you go, yes, everyone knows that. But that's _my _choice because without you, I'm alone too. I got hurt, yes, but I'm OK. It happens. But it's not your fault and you have to remember that. I'm a grown man. I make my own decisions." Sherlock didn't say anything, just looked at John with those piercing blue eyes. John knew he was waiting for a reply to the _other _thing he had said.

He addressed that now. "And as for feeling more than just friendship… Well… I feel the same. I think I always have and, as much as you infuriate me, steal my things and treat me like your own personal tea-maker, I'm pretty sure I always will."

ooo

Sherlock Holmes wasn't often rendered speechless. He often chose not to speak but that was a different thing. Right now he was speechless. He had poured out his feelings –a novelty in itself since for most of his life he had believed he didn't have any – to the only person he had ever cared about and that person felt the same. It had taken nearly losing that person twice to make him say it but now he had and it hadn't blown up in his face. If only all of his experiments could go this well. Not that John was an experiment. Far from it.

He saw John smiling at him, amusement playing on his face, and then the detective saw him laugh. "What?"

"Well, usually, when you tell someone you… You _care _about them, and they say it back, you kiss. Now, I can't move so you're going to have to come to me."

Sherlock froze. For all his highly erotic fantasies about the man lying in front of him, the detective was painfully aware that he had absolutely no experience of _any _kind of physical intimacy and that included kissing. It wasn't like Sherlock Holmes to lack confidence in anything but right now all he could find himself thinking was, what if I'm not good at it? What if I kiss him and he changes his mind? "Right, erm…"

He half-rose from his chair but stopped when he saw the look John was giving him, half-confused, half-hurt. "You do _want _to kiss me, Sherlock?" John's voice was shaky, uncertain and very sad.

What sort of question was that? Of _course _Sherlock wanted to kiss John. "Yes, John. Yes. It's just…" He couldn't say it. Couldn't say that in all his fantasies, John had taken the lead, had kissed _him_, had taught him. Because Sherlock Holmes did not find it easy to express his feelings, and he found it even harder to express that he didn't know everything. But Sherlock _did_ knew that if he didn't do something quickly then he would hurt John and probably lose him again. John would think that Sherlock's confession was just empty words, an overreaction to his stabbing and John would think he'd laid himself bare for nothing and humiliated himself.

Sherlock could already see those thoughts forming in John's mind. It was like they were typed above his head, hanging in the air, _accusing _Sherlock.

So Sherlock took the only course of action open to him. He got out of the chair and knelt by John's bedside, leaning over the doctor and staring fixedly into his brown eyes. "Of course Iwant to kiss you." And with that he brought his lips to John's.

It was sweet, tender, chaste but Sherlock was pretty sure from the low moaning noise John made that he was doing it right. He took care not to lean on John's injured shoulder as the other man brought his good arm up and entwined his fingers in his hair, pulling Sherlock's head down, deepening the kiss, probing at Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue, seeking entrance. Sherlock obliged him and began to copy his friend's (lover's? Boyfriend's? Partner's?) movements, gently exploring his hot, wet mouth with his own tongue. The moans were positively indecent and Sherlock was surprised to discover they were coming from his own throat as he battled with John's tongue for dominance. John won, of course. Sherlock let him. Sherlock needed John to teach him and he planned on being an apt pupil. Meanwhile, Sherlock was wondering exactly _why _he had always been so averse to this kind of physical connection. He remembered that he had believed it would dull the brain, but that just wasn't true. Sherlock had never felt more _alive_, more alert. Every nerve in his body was on fire and it felt amazing.

They pulled apart for air, John's fingers still entangled in Sherlock's thick curls and the two gazed into each other's eyes. Not in the soppy way that would ordinarily make Sherlock feel a bit nauseous, but as if they were searching for something. And then Sherlock realised John was looking for the source of the detective's hesitation. Why had Sherlock been afraid to kiss him? He had to tell him or John would always doubt his feelings.

"It was my first." Sherlock explained, closing his eyes in shame.

"I thought that might be the reason," mused John. "But I wasn't sure. It was too good for a first time."

"I've always been a fast learner."

"Clearly."

Sherlock felt pressure on the back of his head and realised that John was pulling him to him again. Their lips met and this time there was nothing chaste about it as Sherlock felt John suck on his lower lip, biting it gently before tilting the detective's head back, kissing, licking and biting that pale expanse of throat. Sherlock heard himself growl – actually growl! – as his erection became unbearable and he found himself pulling away from John, standing up and then moving back to the chair.

Sherlock wanted this to continue. He wanted to climb into the hospital bed with John and have John teach him everything he knew about sex there and then. But that would be both impractical and uncomfortable. Not to mention difficult with John's injured shoulder. And there was that other thing, the thing that Sherlock didn't really want to admit. He was afraid. Afraid that John would find him repulsive, afraid that John wouldn't think he was any good, afraid that he would be letting John get too close to him, close enough to get burned. And John was looking at him. Not with hurt or resentment for the kiss being broken, but with patient understanding.

"We'll take it slow, Sherlock. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do. Things don't even have to… To change between us, if you don't want them to. We can just go on like we did before, just knowing that we… Mean that bit more to each other." Only John could be so kind. Willing to offer a loving relationship without physical intimacy if it made Sherlock feel more comfortable. Except really all it made Sherlock feel was that he didn't deserve to have someone like John Watson in his life.

"I... I do want things to change. I want you. All of you. Everything that entails. But…" How to say this? How to say it without sounding like a complete idiot? "But before I met you, I didn't even think I was capable of feeling, let alone expressing that feeling physically. But with you I want to. It's just… It's just overwhelming. It's something I don't understand and I find _that _overwhelming."

"Then we take it slow."

"How slow?"

"As slow as you want, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock Holmes allowed himself the smallest of smiles. No, John Watson wasn't going anywhere. Sherlock was never going to lose him again.

_**A/N: This story is definitely NOT over but I do need to concentrate on other things for a little while so I can't see another chapter going up for another week/fortnight but we'll see. Thank you again for all your reviews. I find Sherlock hard to write as he's so unemotional but I'm hoping I'm getting the tone right. If I'm not, please let me know in reviews so I can try to alter it. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to get out. I've been writing it in dribs and drabs because I've been snowed under with work but I've finally had some time to sit down and write!**_

_**Thank you once again to all my wonderful reviewers (LongwoodLancer8, NebulousBlender, power0girl, crazycookBekah, Olivia-B52007, How Convenient, Cypress665 Kiyoshi and kissedangelzxxx). Some responses to particular reviews:**_

_**power0girl: Thank you for the advice on how to write Sherlock as emotionless but emotional. It's really helpful! Much like Spock, having Sherlock's emotions bound up in logic so they only appear to be non-existent is great. Thanks! :-)**_

_**Kiyoshi: Yep, grammatical pointers always welcome, thank you. I did spot a few myself after I'd uploaded the chapter but then didn't have time to correct them and replace it so I just ended up leaving them in but I'd be interested to see what you picked up on. If you don't want to leave it in a review, you can PM me! As for Irene Adler, I um-ed and ah-ed about this and then decided that (in my Sherlock universe at least) Lestrade would have at least a little knowledge of Adler. I figured that Mycroft would have debriefed him (under the Official Secrets Act of course) in order to explain the corpse-in-the-boot case that he had Sherlock investigating. Lestrade would know John was in on it so he'd be free to mention it to him. It's debatable, of course, but it suited my purposes for the handcuff gag so I went with it. **_

_**Kiyoshi (again) and LongwoodLancer8: Thank you for your feedback on Sherlock's tone/openness. Again, I um-ed and ah-ed about how easily Sherlock would spill his feelings to John and it was something I struggled with but then I decided that because he had been frightened by the fact that he could lose John (something which he considered to be his fault) he would be uncharacteristically open. I kind of saw his mentality being "I need to tell him now because he could have died without ever knowing tonight." I kind of compensated for the uncharacteristic openness by having him explain his feelings rather inarticulately and without the use of the L-word… Something which I don't think Sherlock would ever say out loud, however much he might think it. I plan to work a bit of this into this chapter so hopefully it should all make sense.**_

_**Anyway, after that epic author's note, here's Chapter Five! As ever, rated M for language and sexiness. And there is proper rude sexiness in this chapter so if you don't like, don't read!**_

**Back From The Dead Because Of You**

**Chapter Five**

John had only been kept in hospital for a couple of days to make sure there was no further damage from the stab wound. Once the doctors gave him the all-clear, he was free to return to Baker Street on the condition that he take it easy for a few weeks, not do any strenuous exercise and start to see a physiotherapist.

On returning home, John had been worried about how his and Sherlock's relationship might have changed now that they were officially a couple but he needn't have concerned himself. Sherlock was the same old annoying prick, it was just now he was John's annoying prick. They worked on cases (although none that required chasing after criminals for now), bickered and drank tea same as before. The only difference was that now they sat a bit closer together when working and occasionally indulged in steamy kisses. They hadn't started sharing a bedroom yet, nor had they told anyone about their relationship.

John didn't want to put pressure on Sherlock. The whole relationship thing was new to the detective – never mind the physical side – and John didn't want to frighten him so that he clammed up completely. He had got the feeling that Sherlock was almost embarrassed by his outburst in the hospital and John guessed that the detective had felt exposed by laying his feelings bare like that. So, John was there to let him know it was OK, that he would be there no matter what, by doing everything on Sherlock's terms.

Plus, there was something beautiful and highly erotic in taking things slowly. The first couple of days out of the hospital they hadn't so much as kissed. They touched each other perhaps more than they ordinarily would have but that was about it. Then, when John had been home three or four days, he had felt up to blogging about the Jane Austen Murders, leaving out, of course, the exquisite finale in the hospital. Sherlock had stood behind him, watching him type before leaning down and kissing the back of the doctor's neck. John had turned his head slightly to look at the detective who proceeded to bring his lips to John's in a slow, chaste kiss that lasted mere seconds but felt like twelve lifetimes. Neither Sherlock or John said anything and the doctor returned to his blog, a beaming grin plastered across his face. The next day, John had decided to kiss Sherlock, cornering him as he left the bathroom after his morning shower. He smelt of peppermint and soap and John couldn't resist placing a chaste kiss on the dark-haired man's lips. He let Sherlock take the lead as the detective slipped his arms round John's waist and drew him closer (but not too close) as their lips glided over each other's. Day by day, the kisses got longer and more passionate until now, nearly four weeks on, they were leaving John breathless, aroused and having to restrain himself from ripping all of Sherlock's clothes off and fucking him into the room below.

It was also kind of exciting keeping the relationship a secret. This wasn't because John or Sherlock were ashamed or embarrassed, more that John didn't want the rest of the world interfering – that would be something else to put pressure on Sherlock – and Sherlock wanted his private life to stay private. John figured that Mycroft and their friends – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly – would find out eventually but he wasn't in any rush to announce it. It was nice to have something that just belonged to him and his detective and he enjoyed the giddy rush that came from letting his hand "accidentally" and discretely brush Sherlock's as they examined a crime scene together.

As far as talking about their relationship went, they hadn't discussed it any further since leaving the hospital. John knew Sherlock's feelings and Sherlock knew John's – John didn't see that there was any more to say. He knew that Sherlock wasn't the type to say "I love you" and John wasn't going to make him feel obligated by saying it to him. Anyway, what was the point? Sherlock surely could deduce how John felt just by looking at him. John knew that this wasn't a relationship that was going to end in a proposal and a civil partnership. They weren't going to be adopting babies and buying a house in the suburbs. That wasn't Sherlock, and John was fine with that. He was happy just being with the man and he didn't need all those other things. Why would he? Their lives were exciting enough as they were. John did often muse that perhaps that was the reason Sherlock had never been in a relationship before, that no one else understood his lack of romanticism, mistaking it instead for a lack of commitment or emotion. But John accepted it wholeheartedly and knew that he didn't need verbal reassurances, a ring, a mortgage or a baby to know that Sherlock Holmes loved him as much as he could love anyone.

So, here they were a month on, colleagues, friends and partners, and John was happier than he had ever been in his life before. Everything was right with the world. He had his detective and his detective had his blogger.

ooo

Sherlock was in torment. He had initially been delighted when John had said they could take things slowly but it had been a month now and he desperately wanted to move things along and he didn't know how to let John know. He was not good at vocalising his feelings. It had taken John nearly being killed for him to tell him he cared for him as more than a friend and for days afterwards Sherlock had been mortified that he had exposed himself so thoroughly. He definitely appreciated that John was taking things slowly for his benefit, it just reaffirmed to him that there was no one in the world quite like his blogger, but now he wanted things to progress and he just didn't know what to do.

He knew it'd be easy enough to palm John's erection through the thick denim of his jeans during one of their more exciting kisses, to take his hand and lead him seductively to the bedroom, but what then? Would he ask John to teach him? Or would he attempt to take the lead himself, unsure if he was even doing it right? Sherlock hated doubting himself. It was an unfamiliar sensation and not a pleasant one. And especially when it came to sex, the most natural thing two people could do together. If Sherlock was truly being honest, his fears over "doing it right" were just his way of not having to admit that he was scared of the loss of control that arousal and orgasm brought. Lately he had been bringing himself to orgasm almost every day after his and John's kisses ended in breathy "we-should-stops" and he both craved and dreaded what it brought. All rational thought vanished and he was just overwhelmed by sensation. It felt amazing, but for a mind like Sherlock's it was also terrifying. And if he could achieve that by himself then what could John do to his brain?

That said, John made him feel safe, protected, loved. John would surely know what sex could do to someone like Sherlock and go out of his way to keep him safe. John would keep him grounded – whisper reassuring nothings in his ear even as he told Sherlock to come for him.

The thought was not displeasing.

Sherlock glanced up from John's computer which he had "borrowed" in order to look up the security system supposedly protecting several households that had been burgled in the last two weeks. John was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the mugs they had been drinking from not ten minutes earlier. The burglaries can wait, thought Sherlock, shutting down the computer and getting up. He walked up behind John, slipped his arm's round the shorter man's waist and kissed the side of his throat. John relaxed in his arms and let out a small moan. Encouraged, Sherlock turned him around and brought their lips together.

Their lips moved over each other effortlessly – they were both getting rather good at this – and Sherlock decided to take the lead by slipping his tongue into the doctor's mouth, exploring that hot, wet space as John battled him for dominance. Sherlock pinned John back against the kitchen counter and sucked his bottom lip into his own mouth, probing it gently with his tongue as he felt John's hands running up and down his back, occasionally dipping low enough to caress the top of the detective's arse, pulling animalistic moans from him. It's now or never, thought Sherlock, while he was still capable of coherent thought, and brought a hand round to John's front, palming his positively enormous erection through his jeans. He felt John tense up and he pulled out of the kiss.

"Is this OK?" Sherlock whispered.

John smiled. "Of course it's OK, idiot. It's just… Well… Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well then, it's OK."

Sherlock pulled John back into the kiss and continued his ministrations on the bulge in his jeans. John moaned into his mouth, murmuring against his lips, "There's so much I want to do to you…"

Sherlock pulled back and smiled. "You'd better show me then." And with that, he took John's hand and led him to his bedroom.

ooo

John had been shocked when he first felt Sherlock's hand against his cock. He had never expected the other man to take the lead like that but he wasn't complaining. In fact, after a few more seconds it had felt like Sherlock's hand had no business being anywhere _but _on his cock. And now here they were, in Sherlock's bedroom, facing each other and breathing heavily, both knowing what came next but neither seemingly able to start. And then John knew… He just _knew_. Sherlock touching him like that had been his way of letting John know he was ready to go further, but now it was John's turn to take the lead.

The doctor closed the gap between him and Sherlock, sliding his arms round his waist and sucking gently on his lower lip. John thought he might be developing a fetish for Sherlock's lower lip. He didn't feel satisfied lately unless a kiss ended with Sherlock's lower lip looking swollen and positively abused. He didn't see why this time had to be any different. He experimentally rocked his hips forward, brushing their straining erections against each other and was rewarded by a low groan from the world's only consulting detective. He deepened the kiss, walking Sherlock backwards until the detective's legs hit the edge of the bed and he was forced to lie down, pulling John on top of him.

John broke the kiss and looked down into his lover's eyes. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Of course I'm sure, John." John smiled. Sherlock might sound his usual arrogant self but the doctor could hear the slight waver in his voice.

"We're going to take it slow." John saw Sherlock get ready to argue so John quickly interjected, lowering his head and speaking quietly, his voice almost a growl, in the younger man's ear. "We're still going to do _stuff_, Sherlock. Trust me, I'm going to make you come so hard you won't know what's hit you. But we're not going to do everything. We've got the rest of our lives for that and, to be honest, you've got me so turned on I'm not going to last long enough."

John began to slowly kiss and lick that sensitive spot where Sherlock's jaw met his earlobe, murmuring against the skin, "We've got the rest of our lives for blow jobs and rimming and fingers and fucking and handcuffs and sixty-nines and blindfolds and toys and all those other things I _know_ you've been looking up on the internet." A light flush spread across the detective's face and John knew he'd hit home. "So there's no need to rush, Sherlock, there's no need to do all those things on your first time." John lightly nipped the skin of the detective's neck with his teeth, eliciting a moan from the man. "I know you're scared. I know you're not sure how to cope with the way sex makes you lose control. So I'm going to show you exactly how good it can be. With me. One." Kiss. "Step." Lick "At a time." Bite.

John heard Sherlock cry out his name beneath him and the doctor laved the skin he had just marked with his tongue before bringing his mouth back to Sherlock's.

ooo

Sherlock kissed back with enthusiasm, letting his tongue slip and slide over John's, groaning as the older man's hands moved up the sides of his shirt. Hearing John quietly murmur all of those delicious sounding sex acts against his neck, hearing him say they'd do them, hearing him say they could spend the rest of their lives together, it _did _things to Sherlock. The detective felt his fear leave him. John would take care of him.

"We're not nearly naked enough…" John growled against his lips and Sherlock smiled as he felt the doctor's hands move to his shirt buttons. The detective reciprocated, tugging John's jumper and t-shirt over his head, before letting his hands wander to the fly of the older man's jeans, feeling his lover do the same. They were naked in no time, John straddling the detective, and Sherlock took a moment to admire the muscular body of the former soldier. It was toned and fit but not bulging with obscenely big muscles and Sherlock decided very quickly that he liked it. He also very much liked John's long, thick cock which stood erect, not quite touching his own throbbing member. He realised he was unconsciously licking his lips and saw John smile down at him.

"You're gorgeous, Sherlock Holmes."

"You're… You're…" Sherlock found himself unable to articulate exactly how attractive John was so instead reached out a pale hand and trailed it down the former soldier's stomach. John seemed to understand though and, in response, leaned down and began to kiss Sherlock again, letting their erect cocks brush together. Sherlock had never felt anything like it and he groaned into John's mouth as the delicious friction caused coloured lights to pop behind his eyelids. He let his hands trail up and down John's back, scratching him lightly with his fingernails as the doctor moaned loudly, dipping his head to take one of Sherlock's nipples into his mouth, sucking it hard.

"Oh, God! John… Yes!" He felt John smile against his skin before gently biting the hard flesh. He let out an animalistic roar and felt himself flipping them over so that he was straddling the good doctor, desperate to make John feel even half as good as he was feeling. He gave an experimental thrust, brushing his erection over John's and feeling pleased as the blonde man let out a loud expletive followed by the detective's name. He scratched his fingernails down over John's chest, gently tweaking his nipples and enjoying the incoherent, loud moans coming from the man's mouth. Continuing his thrusting, he lowered his head and began to suck on a nipple, running his tongue over it and pinching the other between his finger and thumb.

"You _are_ a fast learner…" John panted between groans.

"I've got an excellent teacher." There was something intensely erotic about looking into John's eyes while rhythmically brushing their cocks together but Sherlock knew that if he was going to come he needed more friction, more pressure.

As if reading his mind, John moved and Sherlock found himself lying on his back again, John straddling him, wrapping a rough hand around both of their cocks and stroking. Coherent thought was disappearing fast and Sherlock was beginning to see stars. He knew he wasn't going to last long but he wanted to be part of this. He wanted to have a part in making John come, making John scream his name. As John began to lean forward, Sherlock slid his own hand between them and entwined his fingers in John's, curling his own hand around their erections and meeting John's steady rhythm.

"Oh, yes! Sherlock that feels incredible!"

Sherlock was beyond words at this point. He was aware of a series of moans, groans, growls and other indistinguishable noises emitting from his lips but he could no longer control them. The feeling of John's skin on his was all he could concentrate on, that and the growing sense of pressure building in the pit of his stomach.

"John, I'm going to –"

"Me too! Oh, God, Sherlock!"

Sherlock felt like the world was exploding as he was wracked by the most amazing orgasm he had ever felt. Rope after rope of come shot from his and John's cocks, landing all over his hand and his stomach. Above him, John was screaming expletives and Sherlock's name so loud that half of London must know they were lovers by now.

As they came down from their mutual orgasm, sweaty and breathless, John shocked Sherlock by sweeping his rough tongue up the detective's torso, licking him clean of their come. It was such an intense, intimate thing to do and if Sherlock had had the energy, he knew it would have turned him on all over again. Instead he pulled John's face to his and kissed him deeply, tasting them both on his tongue and wondering if they tasted this good separately or was it only together? He would have to test that on a future occasion.

"That was amazing, Sherlock." John was smiling, laughing even. "Are you sure it was your first time?"

Sherlock laughed. "Positive, John. I am, though, looking forward to being taught more by the good doctor."

John brushed a stray damp curl away from Sherlock's forehead and kissed the skin there. "All in good time, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock couldn't wait.

_**A/N: I'm not sure about this chapter, possibly because I had to write it a little bit at the time. But, as ever, I look forward to your reviews. Not sure how long it'll take for me to get another chapter up, but please be patient with me! There are probably loads of spelling and grammar mistakes too but I just want to get this published. Will go back and revise when I have more time! :-)**_


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